Torment of the Ancient Gods

by Craig Robertson

  Daleria's nod was barely perceptible. Good. She took what I'd said to heart. This wasn't a holo game with power crystals and reboots.

  “So tomorrow you make contact with Festock. If he gives off any signals that don't pass the whiff test, we let the lead go. You clear on the perimeters of engagement?”

  “Yes.”

  “You and a few friends are planning to open a restaurant/club in a new area. Happens to be near where he lives now. Funny coincidence. You wondered if maybe he wants a piece of the action. Lead investor so far is me, Magilla. Tester,” I pointed to Doc, “Headcase, Slick, and Scruffie are the others in the group.” I'd indicated Sapale, Slapgren, and Mirraya. “You, you're still Daleria. Got that?”

  She nodded. The color was returning to her face.

  “Since Scruffie's a pro and easy on the eyes, she'll go as your BFF. She can get you out of trouble hasty quick if need be.”

  Mirri cracked her knuckles. “You don't want to piss this alpha bitch off.”

  Slapgren whispered a quiet, “Can I get an amen.”

  “Those that are staying behind are the backup team. They'll monitor the whole interaction. If it gets hairy, they'll bust in and set the record straight.”

  “Set the record …” Daleria began to ask with confusion.

  “Backup'll kill everything that moves. Hopefully that doesn't accidentally include you.”

  Daleria's eyes saucered huge.

  “War, peanut. They say it's ugly for good time-proven reason. You ready?”

  “Y … yes,” she replied.

  “Then let's do this. Simage your old friend.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Vorc was reasonably confident he'd finally chosen an acceptable assistant. Since his in retrospect regrettable decision to fry Dalfury, he'd struggled mightily to find a replacement he could live with. Live with in this context was a euphemism for not kill in anger almost immediately. Hizzar might have been saddled with several less than optimal personal characteristics. But he was a hard worker, he was punctual, and he had no sense of humor or irony, qualities that plagued Dalfury up until his demise. The fact that Hizzar was technically a zombie accounted for those laudable traits. It also less fortunately brought along the issues of the smell, the ceaseless moans and groans, and the flies. The flies were really bad. Perhaps it was Cleonoid magic at play, but even if Vorc singed a massive swarm of blood-sucking insects, another appeared almost immediately. Maybe there was just a long queue of hungry pests waiting to get close to Hizzar. But he even took shorthand. It was amazing. Yes, Vorc would call the outer office and ask Hizzar to come copy down a dictation, and Hizzar would detach a hand and it crawled in to do the job. The rest of Hizzar was then free to continue to work at his desk. Plus, one hand drew many fewer flies than the entirety of the long-dead humanoid.

  There came a squishy knock on Vorc's wooden door.

  Vorc couldn't help himself. He cringed. What a nauseating sound. “Come.”

  Hizzar spoke, but he did so neither clearly, at a normal cadence, nor dryly. “There is a live body to see you, ssssir.” Hizzar, as intensely as Vorc might coach him, could not suppress the terminal hiss when saying sir. When Vorc instructed him to lose the appellation—you got it—he replied yes, ssssir. What they said about old zombies and new tricks was a fact. The same applied to the living-body thing. It seemed to be a defining feature for zombies.

  “I don't know, ssssir. Shall I ask?”

  Approximately one thousand times Vorc had answered that query in the affirmative. Vorc foolishly hoped that if he did so, it would impress upon Hizzar the need to get the party's name before announcing them. A saying concerning that aspect of zombie intellect was still pending.

  “Nooo,” Vorc sighed, “just send them in.”

  “Them, ssssir? I counted only one.”

  “Then send them in.”

  “Them, ssssir? I counted only one.”

  “Send the one live body in, pl … please.”

  “Ssssir.” He turned slowly so as not to disarticulate any parts or appendages and went to fetch the live body.

  A full two minutes later Hizzar reappeared. “Your live body, ssssir.”

  Hizzar backed away to allow Nephelt to enter. The feline god of triumph did not take her keen eyes off Hizzar until the door was securely closed and then some. “Why did you send for a live body, Vorc?” she asked with piqued concern.

  “I didn't. My newest assistant is fixated on the living, that's all.”

  “Little wonder. You know it's a zombie, right?”

  “He's a zombie and yes, of course. Good help is hard to find. I'm going through an extended vetting project.”

  “So I've heard. You have killed more assistants than any center seat in memory. You are to be praised on your commitment to history.”

  Vorc tapped his fingers nervously on the table. Big mistake. Fast-moving little objects drew instant attention from any cat. Nephelt nearly leapt on the desk.

  Vorc quickly set both hands under the table. “What brings you?”

  “We need to talk.”

  Vorc growled in a low tone. Rapid-fire mistake number two. Cats respond poorly to low growls. She nearly leapt for his throat.

  Vorc reflexively snapped a hand in front of his windpipe. He instantly regretted the rapid-movement thing again.

  Nephelt slowly cooled. “Gáwar is out of control. As you know, he continues to ravage our land as if it were Prime. You summoned him. You are center seat. You must end our suffering.”

  “Or what?” Vorc rallied to ask darkly.

  “What do you think, brainless? You will be lucky to leave office alive, let alone in one piece. You will then become the newest, largest, and ugliest monument at Beal's Point. Any questions so far?”

  “Are you threatening me?” He stood to his full height, clutching Fire of Justice in one hand.

  “No, I'm apprising you to a reality you seem not to have noticed.”

  “Do you know of any specific threats to me or my administration? If you do you had better tell me at once.”

  “If I knew of any and if I told you, I'd end up as miserably dead as you're looking to be.”

  “I'll warn you but once. If you withhold information, you will live to regret it.”

  “Possibly, but by my read of public sentiment, you won't be around to witness my regret.”

  “So that's it. You came to cast veiled threats at me?”

  “I came to demand action. I came to impress upon you how passionately the rabble in the streets are feeling. Vorc, it's damn ugly out there. I've never seen it so bad and I'm a very old cat.”

  Vorc looked down. “I know there are widespread calls for me to step down.”

  “No. There are calls to widespread your body like liver pâté.” A thin wisp of saliva escaped her lips.

  “And you have come for what reason? To taunt and lord over me? To kick me when I'm down?”

  A growl flared deep in her throat, then eased back. “I came to tell you. I want to go to Prime. I want Gáwar preferably dead but definitely gone. Many feel the same. If you do not act soon, others will act.” Without a further word or courtesy, she whipped around and sprang out through the still-closed door. She wanted to leave a reminder of her passion with her idiot center seat.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Daleria indicated that Festock's immediate reaction to her message was a lukewarm cordial type. Since the stakes were so high, I pressed her as to the possible ramifications of his less than ebullient response.

  “So he used to be more open, more friendly?” I posed.

  “Oh yes. That was a subdued Festock.”

  “Any hint as to why?”

  “No, and I paid close attention to just that aspect.”

  “As to getting together, he agreed, but was it a friend-location or really neutral open ground?”

  “I'm not certain. When we were younger we'd carouse like kids do. Later he came to my restaurant. We never agreed to meet anywh
ere, so I'm not sure if this is a defensive move on his part.”

  “Are you familiar with the club?”

  “No.”

  “Then I'm guessing he's being cautious. He either suspects your motives or he's just hyper-vigilant because he's up to his ears in a conspiracy juice.”

  “I'm hoping it's the latter.”

  “You know what my pappy always used to say.”

  “Stop that, Jon, you'll go blind,” interjected Sapale.

  “Besides that. Hope for the best but plan for the worst. We'll set this up like he's going to double-cross you but leave him plenty of room to warm up to your sudden return to his life.”

  “That sounds … ah, difficult,” responded Daleria.

  “No, don't let it be. You be charming and engaging. If he hiccups incorrectly, Mirraya will incinerate him. No big deal.”

  “I am not fond of incinerating strangers, Uncle.”

  “Practice makes perfect. It's only the first few rash acts that give one pause. Pretty soon you'll be as callous and reflexive as me.”

  “Oh, now there's a non-goal to cling to,” Mirri responded.

  “In this first meeting make certain you don't mention Vorc, Gáwar, or disenchantment with the political realities facing the Cleinoids.”

  “Why?” Daleria asked.

  “No subversive of any worth would tip his hand on so life-threatening a secret. If he dangles it he's fishing.”

  “Fishing?”

  “Seeing if you'll take the bait. If he mentions it in passing and you profess an undying passion to make Godville a better place, he'll know you're trying to set him up.”

  “Than he'll do the incinerating,” added Mirri.

  “You'll never see it coming,” I agreed.

  “Okay, this sounds like fun,” replied a nervous Daleria.

  “If at any point you experience a feeling of fun, Mirraya here'll kick you under the table.”

  “Even more to anticipate with glee,” she responded.

  “You'll do fine. The first few meetings'll be a breeze. This only gets interesting if he decides to take you into his confidence,” I reassured her. “The best way to see that he does is to express no interest in the politics while seeming concerned about Festock's well-being.”

  “Won't he be suspicious if I reappear from the past and demonstrate a significant and consistent concern for his well-being?” she pressed.

  “No way,” I grunted. “He may not be a man, but he's a male. When a pretty girl is blowing smoke up your butt, no male ever reaches for a fan. There's no cure for testosterone poisoning.”

  “I do believe Sapale's correct,” Daleria responded with a frown.

  “Yes,” my mate added quickly, “he is a pig.”

  “A realistic and seasoned pig. Okay, you two get going. Remember, no politics and don't sleep with him on the first date.”

  “You are an intolerable pig,” Daleria added.

  “No, just sayin'. Stringing him along is the best way to get him to open up to you. Remember, he's a male.”

  “And on that note, they left while throwing up in the backs of their throats,” announced Mirri. Gotta love that dragon.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Festock sat in the center table of the expansive nightclub/bar he asked Daleria to meet him at. Her first impression was that it was by far the most conspicuous spot in the room. Obviously Festock wanted to have their reunion be most public. That already betrayed a bit of paranoia. Not, she reflected, a good sign. She was happier than ever to have the very lethal shapeshifter along riding shotgun. Daleria flirted with aborting the entire mission, but then calmed herself down and went ahead.

  Festock raised one of his three pencil-thin arms into the air and waved her over. “Dally, over here,” he called out in his nasal voice.

  He once told her his species was the Lud. Their origins were from a planet named Sessalian. It was a slimy hot jungle world, hence their spherical shape was ideal. Falling was common, so having no angles or sharp edges helped minimize injuries. He aways said his voice sounded funny to others because the atmosphere of Sessalian was more dense than most places. That made the pitch unnatural when he spoke in thinner air. Hearing him again, she was reminded how hard she had to try not to laugh at his speech when they were kids.

  “Festock,” Daleria said as she leaned in and pecked him on one cheek. His round mouth was huge. That made Daleria aim carefully so as not to seem to be romantically kissing him on the lips. “Good to see you, old friend.”

  He set all three arms on his chest. “Old? Why I'm half your age, old lady.”

  They both chuckled at his remark.

  “Sorry, Jiju,” she said, resting the back of her hand on Mirraya's, “that's an inside joke. Festock here is so old no one actually remembers his age. He might even be from the early times of our universe.”

  “Ah,” Mirri replied neutrally.

  “Festock, this is my good friend Jiju. She's the one Clinneast referred to as Scruffie. When I told her I was going to meet you, she said she simply had to come along.”

  Festock extended two arms. Mirraya bumped him with both hers as Daleria had instructed her. “A pleasure to meet you, Jiju. That name is not familiar to me. What are its origins?”

  “My actual name is inexcusably long. I've long since contracted it down to just Jiju. Trust me, I'm doing the world a favor.”

  “Ah,” he responded with some stiffness in his tone.

  “Dally, are you two lovers?” he asked pointedly.

  “No, you big beach ball. You're still always trying to marry me off, aren't you? Can't I just have a friend?”

  “I suppose. But you're not a child any longer. It’s time you settled down, got married and squirted out a family.”

  “Yes, Mom, so you've told me for the past millennium. I'm simply not ready.” She nodded her head. “Maybe I never will be. But you know what?”

  “You're happy and that's all that counts,” he replied approvingly.

  “Yes.” She turned to Mirraya. “That's what I have told the busybody for years. He says the words but doesn't mean any of it.”

  “You a fan of marriage, Festock?” Mirri asked with little interest.

  “Why yes I am. I have fifteen wives and three hundred twenty-four loin-spawns.”

  Though he was totally alien to her, Mirraya saw the proud look on his face. “Wow, that's … that's a lot of loin-spawns,” Mirraya sort of gasped.

  “And even more loin-spawning,” teased Daleria.

  “Really, child,” he responded, “such talk in public.” He gestured around the almost empty room. “What rumors you will start.”

  “No, the rumors I start are much juicier than that mundane aspect of your life,” she replied with a grin.

  “Last I heard you had a restaurant up north,” he stated, changing the subject.

  “I still do technically. I'm on an extended vacation.”

  “The two of you,” he said, pointing an arm at Mirri. “On a long non-romantic vacation?”

  “You are such a slime ball,” Daleria snarked.

  “Yes I am. Why do you feel the need to say it?”

  “Because where I come from a slime ball is a bad thing.”

  “Where I come from it's the typical case.”

  They chuckled in a restrained, polite manner.

  “And you, what are you up to nowadays?”

  “Me?” He again rested his arms on his chest.

  “No, the centaur standing behind you. Of course I mean you.” He was way too en garde for Daleria's liking.

  “I guess you could say I'm semi-retired. Yes, that's it. Semi-retired.”

  “But you never did anything to retire from, you lazy-assed globe.”

  “Hey,” he protested with some vigor, “I'm an artist. That's real work, I'll have you know.”

  “An artist? Since when?”

  “Since always,” he responded, miffed.

  “What art form are you the master of, if I mig
ht ask?” Daleria was truly interested to learn.

  “The art of living well. In my case it's elevated to the art of living perfectly.”

  “That's an art form now?” she responded incredulously.

  “Yes it is.”

  “Any of your work in a gallery or available for purchase?” asked Mirraya politely.

  “No, my art is internal, not external.”

  “Might you give us an example or two of your artistic prowess?” asked Daleria with a wicked grin.

  “Yes I might. For years I've taken a nap at four o'clock every afternoon.”

  “That's lazy compulsion, not art,” shot back Daleria playfully.

  “No, that's not where the magic comes into play. Now I nap at 4:05 every afternoon.”

  “Uh huh?” throated Daleria.

  “Don't you see? I used to stress over finishing whatever I was doing by 4:00 p.m. on the dot. Now, since my nap's not scheduled until 4:05 p.m., I don't stress. I mean, I'll nap a little after four. If I don't check the time I won't know I'm off schedule.”

  “And you call that art?” asked Daleria dubiously.

  “As they say, it's in the eye of each beholder,” responded Mirraya.

  “See,” he pointed to Mirraya. “Some people are art lovers.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” dismissed Daleria. “So you loin-up spawn and nap. That's it? How can one retire from such inactivity?”

  He tapped his head/body near its top. “It's all up here, my dear. That too is art.”

  “Oh my gosh, you're amazing,” Daleria wheezed.

  “Thank you.”

  A golem came and took their orders. Mirraya and Daleria ordered first. They requested some small plates and delsta, a sparkling light intoxicant along the lines of prosecco. However, Festock requested only a small drink, suggesting he wasn't planning on lingering very long.